Hat Box :: William Repass

seems The Hat had a hand in it—that head Enhancer lampshade like—seems like most things hats keep coming back—hard to tell hard hat apart from pith—tricorn bowler tengallon baseball top—let no emphatic hatalog diminish the peach basket pava bandana paddy no nor tin—whatever shape whichever material

hats matter—Caps being hats also—enough to make your head spin—historically heads put themselves together and threw in for Head hunt—when from Châteaux those wearing the fancyfeathered High chapeaux saw coming with a guillotine those wearing the brimless bonnets rouges they tore at wigs shat pantaloons—turned out not swell—hard to tell Old Hat apart from New—even if one hates hats

one Capitulates to headgear—what hat had poets wearing it—same historically as that of talking heads—one fancies a fishfur with earflaps cap—Cap sizes keep rising—Hat keeps brimming over like it seams most things—the head looks down on way down there the shady crusty feet—better perhaps to keep a cool head—bare bulb—what’s

the eschatology of hats—must after all keep one’s head above water—not capsize—no more coming hat in hand apart at the seems—were they mere wearable shade would hats matter less perhaps so—hatch—headless not so with-it as the Chicken—stand that on its head and putta $ in it.